


Responsibilities and Vendettas

by Vague_Shadows



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Gen, Sam leaving for Stanford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My little headcanon for what was said between John and Sam the night Sam left for Stanford, a little taste of what happened after, and when Dean got Baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this a while back...in the days before I ever thought I'd actually let people read my stuff. Hope you guys enjoy it.

Dean could hear them yelling from the moment he stepped out of the impala.  Jesus Christ they were loud.  He wondered what set off the explosion this time.  He would never understand why Sam couldn’t just keep his mouth shut and listen to Dad. Sure maybe Dad got a little extreme sometimes, but he was Dad. He generally knew what he was talking about.

“So what, you’re just going to take off to California?” he heard dad yell.  “Just walk out?”

“Stanford, Dad! It’s a full fucking ride to Stanford! Most parents would be proud!”

“It’s great you got it, Sam, but you need to get your priorities straight. This family needs you.”

"Needs me to what?  To sit around while you go out on hunts? To be on call to Google shit? Dean can research just as well as I can.  It’s not that big a deal. What’s wrong with me wanting to go to college?”

Dean paused outside the door. He hated when they fought like this. As soon as he walked in, he’d be expected to take a side. No matter if he sat quietly or tried to calm Sam down, Sam always thought he was taking Dad’s side. Sometimes he was, but mostly he just wanted them to fucking stop.  There was enough to deal with without having them at each other’s throats all the time.

“There’s nothing they can teach you that’s going to help keep you alive, Sam. You know what’s out there. We have a responsibility—”

“No, Dad, we don’t. _We_ don’t have a _responsibility_. _You_ have a _vendetta_. Just because you’ve got this insane obsession to find whatever killed Mom doesn’t mean you get to drag me down with you. You really think if she were alive she’d want me to give up my chance at college to bounce between towns living in little shit holes like this?”

_Fuck, Sam. Don’t talk about Mom. Don’t bring her into this._

“You watch what you say to me, son,” Dad said, voice terrifyingly low and quiet now.

Dean chose that moment to enter the room. Sam needed to shut the fuck up before things got out of hand.

“Sammy, stop it,” Dean said from the door.  “Go for a walk. Cool off.”

“Listen to your brother,” John recommended; neither he nor Sam had taken their eyes off one another, just stood two feet apart glaring daggers.

“What, Dad? You don’t want me brining Mom into this? Why not? Because you know I’m fucking right! She wouldn’t want this for us! She wouldn’t want us to give up everything for your stupid fight! I bet you wouldn’t even be able to look her in the face if she were here right now.  She would _never_ forgive you for raising us into this shit!”

Dad’s hand struck Sam’s face so suddenly it took Dean totally by surprise. Even more surprising was that Dean suddenly found himself between Dad and Sam, hands pushing Dad back. The anger in Dad’s eyes made his blood run cold, but he didn’t budge.

“You want to leave so badly? Then get the fuck out!” John thundered over Dean’s shoulder. “You hate this life that much? Hate your family that much? Fine! Go! But I didn’t raise you to be a deserter! You walk out that door, you are _dead_ to me! No son of mine would _ever_ betray his family like that!”

“Don’t lecture me about family! We _never_ came first! Our whole lives your obsession for this hunt has come first. How many Christmases did you miss? How many birthdays? I’m no son of yours because you never wanted sons! You wanted soldiers! I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t have to listen to your bullshit! I’m getting the fuck out!”

“Then go!”

“Fine!”

Sam stormed away into the next room, leaving a fuming Dad standing in the middle of the den.  He pushed Dean’s hands away angrily and stalked into the kitchen.  Dean walked over to the door of the bedroom he shared with Sam.  Sam was angrily shoving clothes into his duffle.

“Sam, come on,” he said quietly.

“My mind’s made up,” Sam replied firmly.  “I’m going. If Dad doesn’t like it, he can go fuck himself. I’m not spending another night under the same room as him.  He doesn’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t take his side!”

“I’m not taking sides!”

“Of course not! You never take sides. You just stand there.”

Dean felt his jaw clench. The accusation beneath the words stung like a slap.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You could come too, ya know,” Sam said quietly, and, for a minute, the fury in his eyes ebbed.  “Get a regular job or something. You don’t have to stay here.”

“Sammy…” _you can’t fucking ask me to do that._

“You know what, nevermind.  I know you won’t come with me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s fine, Dean.”

He swung his bag over his shoulder and pushed passed his older brother.  Dad walked slowly from the kitchen as Sam crossed to the front door.

“You walk out that door,” Dad said coolly as Sam gripped the handle.  “Don’t you ever come back.”

Sam stilled for just a moment before turning the handle slowly.  “Fine,” he said simply.

Dean stood dumbfounded as the door shut behind Sam. It took him another few seconds to regain enough cognition to open the door and call after Sam.  Sam didn’t turn, just kept a determined pace toward the road and on down the highway.  Ten minutes ago this had been just a fight, one of the worst Sam and Dad ever had, but still just a fight, something that would blow over eventually, even if it took some time.

But now…

Dad put out an ultimatum. Sam picked Stanford over his family. Dean couldn’t even breathe.

All the fights before. All the times he’d felt like he was being pulled in two. They were nothing compared to this feeling.

_You think this is what Mom would have wanted?_

_We have a responsibility…_

_You could come with me…I know you won’t_

_No son of mine would betray his family like that…_

_You don’t want sons; you want soldiers…_

_You walk out that door don’t you ever come back…_

_Fine…_

They both had it _so fucking wrong_. They were missing the point.  The point was that all they had was each other. It was the three of them against the whole fucking world.  _That_ was what mattered.  Not Dad’s obsession with avenging Mom, not Sam’s obsession for being normal. What mattered was that at the end of the day they were family.  That whatever they took on, they did it together. The Winchesters against the world.

Not the Winchesters against each other.

Dean pulled the keys from his pocket. He just needed to go talk some sense into Sam, that was all. Get him back here, and they’d figure stuff out.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” John demanded.

Dean froze in his tracks. “Talk some sense into him,” he replied. “You know he didn’t mean it. He’s just pissed Dad.”

“He made his choice.”

“Dad—”

“I said he made his choice. He chose college over his own family. Over me, over you, over everything that matters.

“Come on, Dad. It’s Sammy.”

“He’s a grown man, Dean. He made choice. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“I don’t want to hear it.  Sam’s gone. That’s all there is to it.  We got work to do.”

With that he stood and walked back to the kitchen table covered in books, seemingly unaware that his eldest son’s soul was being ripped in two.

 

 *********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Two hours later. Sam still wasn’t back. If he’d kept walking, he was probably into town by now—maybe even already at the bus station.  He wasn’t answering his phone. The little fucker better not have thrown it away or—”

_Or what, Dean? What’re you going to do? He’s leaving.  He picked Stanford. There’s nothing you can do about it._

And he couldn’t stand the thought. Couldn’t really start accepting the idea that this was real, permanent.  What if Sam pulled another stunt like Flaggstaff? He’d disappeared for two weeks. Dean didn’t know if Sam was really going to Stanford. Sam could change his mind—end up anywhere.

But right now there was a chance he was still at the bus station.

A chance Dean could still talk some sense into his stubborn little brother.

A chance to fix it.

A chance to keep the family together, to keep Sam with him.

And if there was a chance, he couldn’t just let Sam walk away.

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Dad could go to hell. Dad had always tried to heap bullshit on him with lectures about family duty and following orders and being a good son. He was done catching hell for just trying to be normal. Done being made to feel guilty for wanting to play soccer instead of shooting targets, for wanting to be in the school play instead of do research, for being on student council instead of bow hunting.  Done with all of it.  He needed some time away from this shithole of a life, and if Dad wanted him to stay gone, that was fine by him. He was way too pissed at Dad to have any regret whatsoever about disappointing him.  Fury that fueled his trek to the greyhound station, never looking back.

No, the problem wasn’t Dad. The problem was Dean.

Not looking back when Dean yelled his name out the door.  Throwing his cellphone away at the bus station with seven missed calls from Dean’s number. Pretending he didn’t see the impala pull into the lot as he boarded the bus. Acting like he didn’t see Dean standing in the lot as the bus pulled away. Dean who had done what he could to make things normal. Dean who watched from the sidelines at soccer games, and found a regular job to convince dad to stay in one place long enough for Sam to finish a season.  Dean who gave him shit for being in a “gay ass play” but was still there on opening night.  Dean who called him Mr. President for two weeks straight to annoy him when he’d won the student council election.

Dean would forgive him.

Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He weaved through the crowds to the sign in table, carrying only his battered, army green duffle amidst the countless boxes marching past with the other kids and their families.  He received his key and room number and got directions to the dorm.  When he walked in there were four people already in the room: Sam assumed the blonde guy about his own age sitting on one of the two twin beds was his roommate, James Thomas Milton III, and that the three people around him were his parents and younger sister.

“Hi,” Sam said awkwardly. “I’m Sam. I think we’re roommates?”

“Yeah, Sam Winchester right?” the guy asked.

"That’s me. You’re James?”

“I go by Tom actually.  Good to meet you, man.”

“You too.”

“These are my parents, Grace and James, and my little sister Clara.”

He shook the hand James Milton offered. 

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Grace said. “Are your parents parking? It’s such a nightmare down there.”

“No, it’s just me.”

“Oh, well in that case. Do you need any help with the rest of your things?”

“Actually, this is all I brought.  Thanks though.”

"No problem.”

There was a beat of awkward silence as they parted so Sam could get to his bed. They all seemed to be pointedly looking anywhere but him.

“We were just about to run out to the store and grab Tom some snacks and things. Can we give you a lift?” Grace asked.

"No, ma’am. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Better get going then.  We’ve got a pretty long drive home,” James said, moving toward the door. 

They left, Sam shutting the door behind him.  No sooner had it clicked shut than there was a soft knock.

“Sam? It’s Mrs. Milton. Can I talk to you a moment?”

He sighed.  “Sure,” he said as he opened the door.  “What about?”

"Sam, do you—I really don’t want to seem rude or presumptuous here, but I just have to ask—do you need some money to get things started? We could help you out with—”

“Look, Mrs. Milton, I really appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Honest.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I’ve got a job lined up,” he lied. “Don’t worry about it.  Thanks for the concern, but I’m really okay.”

“Sure, sure. I just wanted to check.  It was nice to meet you, Sam.”

“You too, Mrs. Milton.  Have a safe trip home.”

She turned to walked back down the hall, and he shut the door behind her.  He unpacked his five shirts, six pairs of boxers, three white undershirts, and two pairs of jeans and put them in the drawer.  He tucked his silver knife in the drawer too.  Then he stared for a moment at the three pictures he’d brought with him: one of mom and dad a few years into their marriage, one of Dean and him sitting on the hood of an old clunker at Bobby’s, and one of the second biggest ball of twine in the US, which they’d somehow seen four times in their lives but had yet to make it to the Grand Canyon.  It was a bit of a joke between him and Dean. In the end, he left all three pictures in the bag and shoved it under his bed.

A couple hours later, he’d secured a job as a bus boy at a bar two blocks from campus.  He could start tomorrow, so he should have a little pocket money in a few days.  He stopped in the minimart on the edge of campus to buy some things to tide him over until his first real paycheck: a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, jelly, milk, and a box of knockoff brand Lucky Charms.  He had a couple hundred bucks left after buying the bus ticket, but he figured most of that would go to his books.  He wished for the millionth time that he’d started saving up sooner. Then again, it wasn’t like there was much opportunity to save up, and he hadn’t wanted to get his starter money from a fake credit card. He wanted a clean start.

Tom was putting sheets on his bed when Sam walked back in the room.  There was another set of navy blue sheets sitting on the edge of Sam’s mattress.

“My mom packed me an extra set,” Tom said. “You can use ‘em if you want.”

 “You sure?”

“Yeah, what the hell do I need two sets for anyway?”

“I’ll give ‘em back once I get myself a set,” Sam assured him.  “Thanks for the loan.”

“No problem.”

There were a few more minutes of awkward silence.

“Hey, dude, I gotta ask. It’s killing me. What’s your story?”

“My story?”

“Come on. I know I’m being nosey as fuck, but I can’t stop trying to figure it out.”

“What’s your best theory so far?”

"Witness protection?” he joked with a smile.  “Bet you’re some big witness in a mafia case, right?”

“Yeah, sure and they threw in a Stanford scholarship as a bonus prize. I could tell you about the case, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Fair enough,” Tom said with a laugh.

“What d’you really think?” Sam wanted to know.

“Foster kid?” he asked.  “My dad’s a big time lawyer, but my mom’s a social worker.  We fund this group home thing, and I dunno—it was just a thought.”

“Solid theory.”

“Am I right?”

Once again Sam thought about lying but couldn’t quite bring himself to. It was odd after a lifetime of constant lies to outsiders to tell any form of the truth.  He shook his head. “No, I’m not a foster kid.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sam replied with a shrug. “I, um—I lived with my dad and my big brother.  My dad wasn’t exactly thrilled for me to come here, so I just packed what I could carry and left.”

“Good for you.”

Sam shrugged.  He didn’t really want to have this conversation.

“I’m not trying to shove help down your throat or anything. I’m sure you can take care of yourself, but if you need help with anything, me—my family—we can—”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine,” Sam said, glad for the show of friendship but more than tired of the pity.

“Sure.”

“Hey, guys,” another guy from the hall greeted, sticking his head in their door.  “I’m Brady.  I’m next door.  We’re going out to the bars. Y’all in?”

“Hell yeah,” Tom agreed.  “Come on, Sam. You can’t stay in on your first night of freedom.  I got a killer fake. Drinks on me.”

In the end, Sam followed them out, preferring the noise of the bar to the quiet of the dorm room.  He met a bunch of other freshmen guys.  He had to remind himself that he could make friends here. That he had at least four years to enjoy these people before things changed.  It was kind of a nice feeling once he thought about it. He paid Tom back for the drinks with the money he won at pool and tried not to think of how proud Dean would’ve been that he totally crushed some cocky frat guy who challenged him to a game.  Maybe he didn’t hustle like Dean, but he could still make some damn good money with honest bets.

Hours later as he lay in his dorm, Sam still couldn’t quite believe he was really at Stanford. He’d really done it, really left. He wasn’t going to be trapped in that life. He was going to be normal.  If Dean and Dad wanted to hunt, that was fine, but Sam was done. For good.

Despite the few drinks in his system and his general excitement at getting out on his own, Sam still couldn’t seem to calm down enough to sleep.  It was just too weird being here, some things so similar, some so foreign.  Any other restless night he’d busy himself checking the defenses; it was a habit he’d learned from Dean, who was convinced any trouble sleeping meant some task had been neglected or some danger was lurking around. Whether he was still a hunter or not, Sam still knew what was out there. He wished he could salt the door, wished he could sleep with a gun or a knife under the pillow without freaking people out, wished that Tom had taken the bed closest to the door like Dean always had, wished that the breathing in the next bed over was Dean’s familiar snore lulling him to sleep. 

Dean.

He’d spent an awful lot of time the past 36 hours trying to get Dean’s face out of his head. However much anger he could muster at Dad, it was never enough to make him forget the way Dean looked when the bus pulled out of the lot.  He finally caved and went downstairs to the public phone in the common room.    He decided to check the voicemail on the old number first. Best to have a gauge of where Dean’s head was before he called.

“Please enter your password and hit the pound key,” the automated voice asked; Sam obliged. “You have seven unheard messages:

 

                                 ‘Dammit, Sam. Answer your fucking phone, would you?!’

 

                                 ‘Answer your goddamned phone!’

 

                                ‘You better not have thrown this phone away, or so help me…’

 

                                ‘Come on, Sam. You just can’t talk to Dad like that and expect him to—I mean he’s Dad for fuck’s sake.  He’s just—look, we’ll talk to him, okay? We’ll figure it                                    out.  You know he didn’t mean it. Call me back. I’ll come pick you up.”

 

                                   ‘I am gonna kill you if you don’t answer the goddamned phone. This isn’t funny anymore. Stop acting like a six-year-old.’

 

                                   ‘Sam, this isn’t funny. Pick up the fucking phone.’

 

                                 ‘Sam…please.’

 

Sam put the receiver down to end the call.  He sighed and waited a few minutes before he picked it up and dialed Dean’s number.  It took him three tries to actually go through with dialing it.  Dean picked it up on the second ring.

“Sam?” he asked, even though Sam knew Dean had no way of knowing this number.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam. It’s been a day and a half and you call at 4am? Are you okay? What the hell? Where are you?”

"I’m fine, Dean. Don’t worry.  I’m at Stanford.”

“Would it’ve killed you to pick up the damn phone? I’ve been worried sick, you little fucker.  What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I got a full ride to one of the best schools in the country, and I deserve it.”

“So you had to fight with Dad and storm out and catch a goddamned greyhound and run away? You know damn well there was a better way to have that conversation.”

“You know as well as I do Dad and I don’t have conversations anymore. We have arguments.”

“Well, you could’ve talked to me.”

“I did.”

“You told me you _got_ it. You didn’t say you were _taking_ it.”

“Dean, you know I wanted to go to college.”

“I thought you were proving a point, man. College is fine, sure, but what the hell do you need college for?”

“Did you seriously think I was going to  hunt forever? I hate hunting.  I want to be normal.  I’m not gonna stick around just to be miserable.”

“Miserable, huh?” and the hurt in Dean’s voice was like a punch to Sam’s gut.

“Dean, that’s not what I—don’t be like that,” Sam pleaded. 

“I’m not being like anything.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you. You know that, right? It’s the hunting I don’t want to deal with, not you.”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean replied in a thoroughly unconvincing voice.

“I mean it. I wish it was different, but I’m not gonna just pass up an opportunity like this.  You know how hard I worked for this.  I’ve been busting my ass.”

“No, I get it.  You’re too smart for hunting, right? You hated it anyway.  It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve taken off. Guess Flagstaff was practically a neon sign you weren’t sticking around much longer. College is as good a reason as any to leave, huh?”

“Dean—”

“Have fun being Joe College.  Take care of yourself, Sammy.”

“Dean—”

But the line was dead, and it was so much worse having the call end like that. Yeah maybe Dad yelled until Sam wanted to break his jaw, but Dean’s reaction was a million times worse.  The quiet defeat in his voice as he tried to be nonchalant about it all.  He’d tried to tell Dean this was coming, but Dean never met anything emotional head on—just avoided conversations by shooting or drinking or fucking like he always did.  He’d hoped Dean would just be pissed that Sam pissed off Dad, but it was clear from one phone call that the much bigger problem was Sam leaving Dean.  Sam could feel a tightness in his throat and his chest.  He didn’t want Dean thinking he had anything to do with his leaving. Sam wasn’t trying to get away from him.  It wasn’t Dean. It was the life. Couldn’t Dean see that?

 _Seriously, why the fuck can’t he see that?_ Sam wondered, a less-than-healthy Winchester dose of anger rushing up to overtake the melancholy. _It’s not my fault I don’t want to be there. I don’t have to justify myself. I told him it wasn’t anything to do with him, and he’s just gonna have to get it through his head. I’m not going back. I’m gonna fucking graduate college. I’m gonna be the most goddamned normal college kid I can possibly be._

But as he went back upstairs to his room, Dean’s disdainful last words on the phone were still ringing in his ears.

" _Have fun being Joe College.  Take care of yourself, Sammy.”_


	3. Chapter 3

Dean had barely spoken a word since Sam had left.  Every order Dad gave he answered with a short, "yes, sir," which wasn't unusual for Dean, but the silences between those moments held an accusation, not matter how much Dean tried to push things to the back of his mind.  He hated himself for being so fucking distracted.  Sam had always been the one to brood over things. Dean accepted facts, buried his issues, and moved on.

But not this time.       

Dean mindlessly dismantled and reassembled his gun.  Something Dad had taught both boys to do long ago, not only for its practical applications but as a way to clear their heads.  Dean had been at it for two days now, every moment he wasn't occupied with helping John with the current case.  Dean checked his time for this round of reassembling and looked up for a moment. He met Dad’s eye for a moment before looking away, but the moment was enough. He couldn’t quite look at Dad the same anymore, and something the look in Dad’s eye indicated his father knew the change was there.

Dean didn't want to blame Dad. Sam was just as fucking stubborn, after all—and talking about Mom like that—Dad had a right to be mad.  Still, Dean had expected more; no matter how fucked up things got, Dad was the one who could fix it. This time, he hadn’t; instead, he’d driven the final nail in the coffin and sent Sam out the door.  Even though he felt just as betrayed—maybe even more—as Dad did, some part of Dean would always blame his father for driving Sam away, for not keeping them safe and together.  

Dean buried that little ball of fury deep.  Dad was all he had left now, and he couldn’t afford to start doubting Dad’s decisions.  Right now it seemed like following Dad’s lead on this case was all that was keeping him sane. Sam’s absence was plaguing him like a physical wound.  He'd spent practically every waking moment for eighteen years operating under the mantra of watching out for Sammy.  That mantra was no longer an option.  The unthinkable had happened.  Sam was gone, and at least for the time being he wasn't coming back.  Dean was going to have to figure out how to function without him, but he doubted he’d ever really get rid of the reflexive concern for Sam that crossed his mind every few minutes.  It certainly hadn’t gone anywhere the past two days.

Dean was so lost in his own head he almost didn’t process Dad’s words when he came in the room.

“Vengeful spirit in Oregon,” John said.  “I want you on the road in ten.”

“Sir?” Dean asked.

“Klamath Falls, Oregon,” Dad repeated. “Salt and burn. Caleb needs it taken care of.”

“You want me to go do it? Leave you here?” Dean asked, sure he’d misunderstood something.

“I think I’m more than capable of finishing off a cursed necklace on my own, son, and I would hope at twenty-two you could handle a spirit.”

“Yes, sir, I can do it.”

“Good,” Dad said with a smile and a nod. “Then get the lead out; you’re burning daylight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Even as he hurried to pack his duffle, Dean couldn’t quite believe Dad was letting him go on a hunting trip by himself. It was almost like Dad was trying to apologize, except John Winchester never apologized.  He had his bag packed in just a couple minutes.

“Can I have the keys, Dad? I need to go pack some ammo.”

“You planning to hitch to Oregon?”

“No, sir.  Pick up a car in town.”

He tossed Dean the keys.  “You take good care of that car, or there’ll be hell to pay.  You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t seem to wipe the goofy grin off his face as he walked out to the car. He put his bag in the trunk and couldn’t resist sliding his hand along the just-waxed surface as he moved to get in the driver’s side.  God he fucking loved this car!  He put in a Led Zepplin album, started her up, and pulled out on to the highway practically giddy with excitement.

_Here we go, baby, just you and me. It’s a long drive to Oregon—and we’ve got a detour to make._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


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